Free Bartender by William Vitka Page A

off, too. We can talk about it then. Promise.”
    “All right.”
    A minute later, she’s asleep. Bare breasts rising and falling.
    Kieron kisses her on her forehead.
    He lays back. Stares at the ceiling. So goddamn exhausted.
    He thinks: Maybe ... Maybe if he gets the dope score... Maybe he can use that money to get out of here. Get them all out of here. Pay off the bills with the fourteen. Turn the dope into more cash, find a place where Aaron can just build all day...
    Some goddamn place with a real backyard.
    Alcohol fever dreams.
    But he’s thinking it.
    He realizes in that moment he’s a sad, desperate bastard who needs a way out.
    But he is sitting on fourteen grand.

17.
     
    Saim Dajani wakes up and wishes he was dead five minutes later.
    How many goddamn drinks did those barflies buy him and Joe?
    Enough to make even a HERO COP’s brain melt.
    He stumbles into his living room. The crotch of his boxers threatens to release his dick into the air. He readjusts and sees the couch’s empty. He wonders if Joe managed to get up early and bail. Then remembers he and his partner parted ways after Joe found an inviting blonde bimbo.
    He stands in front of the bathroom mirror. Splashes cold water against his face. Follows that with two big pills of extra strength Advil. Cuz holy shit does it feel like the world is wiping its ass with his brain.
    He sits on the couch. Lights a cigarette. Turns on the TV.
    A day later and his face is still floating across the local news channels.
    He chuckles. Then grimaces as the hangover throttles his skull.
    There was something... Something from last night...
    He holds his head in his hands. “That fuckin bartender.” He stares at the floor. “That guy who set off all the alarms in my head.” Shit. Where the hell was that? “THE THING. That bar. God, I hate that bar.”
    But he’s into something.
    “I just don’t know what yet.”
    He grabs his phone and calls Joe. Hopes it doesn’t go to voicemail.
    Joe picks up. “Hrrnyurgh.” Then there’s coughing.
    “Joe, it’s Saim.”
    “I’m not alive yet, Saim. Gimme, uhh—”
    “Yeah, I’ll call back.”
     
    ***
     
    Saim says, “Look, I’m telling you that guy is into something.”
    Joe says, “Okay, but we’re on suspension. Two weeks’ vacation for shooting bad guys. Paid.” The Kentuckian says this while he’s on the toilet and the sound of flushing roars in the background.
    Saim just got through a few minutes of Joe talking about the roiling beer shit he was taking.
    Partners share maybe too much.
    Joe says, “And what makes you so sure the guy isn’t just like every other weasel? Or just twitchy. Some dudes’re kinda shady and that’s all there is to it. But they ain’t done nothin. You already said he’s not in the sheets. What’re we gonna go after him for?”
    “Trust me. It’s a gut thing. An instinct thing.” Saim stabs out a cigarette. “Wipe your filthy ass and meet me downtown.”
    “Dude, this chick’s still here.”
    “Then you better wipe real good.”
     
    ***
     
    They both feel naked in a particular way. A peculiar way.
    They ain’t cops right now. No police powers, on account of they got suspended for more than a couple days.
    Badge had to get turned in. NYPD ID card had to get turned in. Ditto the Glocks.
    Now they’re just private citizens.
    But at least they have their own permits to carry weapons.
    Joe a Beretta 9mm sub-compact.
    Saim a hulking Colt M1911 .45—he likes the idea of hauling the same machinery guys in World War II did.
    Doesn’t change the mental funk they both find themselves in.
    Joe says, “Can we even do this, is the thing.”
    Saim shrugs. “We ain’t trying to arrest someone. Just find out some shit. That’s all.”
    “Cuz you’re sure the guy’s dirty.”
    “I’m sure.”
     
    ***
     
    They go back to THE THING first. Talk to the tattooed blonde who tends the bar during the day. The one whose hips shake like battleships when a good tune comes on